the rhododendron – I imagine men with knives,
as sad children often do. The bucks rub their

antlers on the front step in the fall, the does
chase us down the driveway when we stare

at their fawns: they knock down fences, dive
through wind-shields, shadow us on our hikes.

We have town meetings, shriek about control
and acceptable losses, while they toss
our babies in the fields of wild wheat.

*from her manuscript, Some Are Horses.

The Pulse
Myronn Hardy

She will be somewhere on the moon
waiting for me. Perhaps when it is
full a glow rose quartz.
The constant ticking will wake
this tired self. Oh the wandering
at night until I reach sand.

I will lie.

There will be cerebellum
exposed the neurons relaxed.
Come down from that luminous place
where dust is the point. Cover this body.
Melt this copper flesh. It is
waiting to be somewhere else.

*from his manuscript, Graze for the Captain.

Mischief Is a Reliable Antidote
Steve Langan

Not without its deep studious ache,
the minute and the next one.
A canyon is residual, is lunatic.
Many rocks beside the gulley we can see
from the balcony of the high0rise;
and then, from those rocks, the next day
or the day after, we see the high-rise!

This always mystifies me. We gather
around the stereo. I’m glad for any music.
Mischief is a reliable antidote again,
and children crawl together on the carpet.

We are and have always been misfit,
disastrously unwilling to crawl-walk-run.
But to look at one thing and only one thing?
I’ve never been able to accomplish this.
Certain paintings, maybe, a few sculptures.

I do remember how light poured red
through a tall man’s ears as he sat
while the symphony warmed up.
I was about ten rows behind him.
I’ve always remembered this about music.

*from his manuscript, What It Looks Like, How It flies.

Selfish
Gary L. McDowell

If we keep feeding the gods,
they’ll leave us to our sentiments,

or to some other irony: I’ve lusted,
coveted, drawn a map of my childhood.

What I missed: the route to school,
the stones we’d roll down the hill